


If You Were All I Knew

by Desdemona



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 10:56:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16596557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdemona/pseuds/Desdemona
Summary: He’s familiar with the urge to kill. But it’s never so strong as when Sam’s dying on him.





	If You Were All I Knew

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago and for some reason never put it up. Which is kind of ridiculous because I really like it so here you go, I hope you like it too.

 

 

 

He’s become well-acquainted with the smell of blood. The texture changes, going from liquid to sticky to dried flaky memories in minutes. But the smell, that raw iron tang that inevitably sinks itself into his nose until he can’t remember what life smelled before it, that never changes.

Neither does the murderous rage that boils to life in his gut when Dean know it’s Sam’s blood, not his, that stains the Impala’s seat. He’s driving hell-bent for leather through a scraggly piece of dirt road in between a mess of gnarled trees and Sam’s barely holding on, his long body sliding diagonally across his seat. Dean can’t gauge the depth of the wound on Sam’s side save for the deep ragged rip in his jacket but the blood, thick and black-red, has already soaked clean through.

He’s familiar with the urge to kill. But it’s never so strong as when Sam’s dying on him. They clear the forest and whip onto paved cement. In the rearview mirror, Dean can see the vampires pile out onto the road. His foot drops down harder on the accelerator, in case they want to give chase. Not that the Impala’s admittedly decent number of horses could really save them if even one of those blood-sucking nuts decides to track them down. But they don’t, for reasons Dean can feel grimly settling in his stomach.

First strike was theirs and as far as they were concerned, it was the killing blow. Sam groans a warbled, painful curse, providing him with the physical fact that if he doesn’t get them somewhere soon, that it just might be. Miles fall under the Impala’s tires in a matter of seconds, leaving their close call far behind. But later, when the car crunches into their hotel’s pitifully small parking lot, it’s the only thing Dean can think about.

 

~*~

 

Sam can’t say a thing that isn’t four letters and a fairly dark shade of blue. Dean, fingers wrapped around the neck of a whiskey bottle and propped in the bathroom doorway _just in case_ , waits as patiently as he can for Sam’s stubborn ass to give up. The wound hadn’t been as deep as he’d been afraid of but the loss of blood is huge. The fact that Sam is standing somewhat upright, his hips anchored hard against the bathroom counter as he shakily tries to sew himself up, is more a testament to the fact that Sam’s big-as-a-fucking-mountain stature clearly means he’s carrying more blood than most humans and can therefore lose half a gallon and still be standing.

Or maybe he’s just a tough little shit. Dean hasn’t decided yet.

On the third (fourth?) fumble of the needle, Dean straightens. Sam’s wobbly hands collide with the countertop and stay there, oddly forlorn with the needle and thread peeking between his fingers. Then he holds out a hand out for the bottle and Dean hands it over, moving over to take his brother’s place at the counter while Sam scoots over, already taking a strong swig. Dean re-threads the needle and goes to work, closing up the wound with a steady hand.

The heat from Sam’s side settles against his fingertips and relief finally winds it’s way through the anger. Guilt tastes like ashes in his throat.

He’s used to that too.

 

~*~

 

The whiskey and the pain takes Sam out somewhere around two-something-six in the morning, his face slack and exhausted in the glow of his laptop. Dean closes it and moves the computer to the dingy table tucked in a catty corner between the TV and Sam’s bed. Dean flicks off the TV as well, grabs his jacket and heads outside. The chill of the northwest has him shoving his hands deep into the warmth of his pockets as he heads over to the Impala.

And he isn’t surprised to see Castiel waiting by the bumper, the ends of his trenchcoat flaring in a wind that isn’t there.

“This is not worth dying for.” Castiel’s voice has gotten deeper, harsher. In the light of the weak moon and the gaudy pink motel sign, he looks, if he’d been human, as if he’s been fighting a very chaotic war for a very long time.

“You should talk.” Dean raps his knuckles against the top of the Impala then watches his hand smooth over marks that aren’t there but he can see all the same. “Don’t tell me not to.”

“I prefer battles that can be won.”

Dean feels his eyebrows slip up. “Is that sarcasm, Cas? Isn’t that against the holy rules of angelhood? Thou shalt not be a smartass?”

Nothing changes on Castiel’s face but Dean knows when he’s scored a point. “I’m not here to fight.”

Dean swings around the car to the driver’s side. “If you’re here to deliver some more apocalyptic bullshit, then let me cut to the chase: No and fuck you. There, saves us ten minutes.”

He gets in and starts up the engine. The Impala revs up to impatient life, as if even the car knows there’s more pressing things to handle. When Dean looks over his shoulder to back out, Castiel glances at him from the backseat.

He’s gotten used to the angel’s silent comings and goings but it’s still creepy. “Is it just less dramatic to open the door?”

“I am complying with your need to save time.”

It’s not so much that they meet gazes as much as Dean finally looks Castiel in the face, reads that minute flash of what could have been resignation, pity, determination or a mixture of the three. But not one part of his face says _I don’t understand_ so Dean’s shoulders lose a little of the tension that’s pulled him together so tightly.

“I’m all about it.” Dean shifts gears, rounds out the parking lot and onto the road. “Daylight savings time is even my favorite time of year.”

 

~*~

 

At dawn, the vampire nest is eerily silent. Dean looks at his knife and then his jeans, searching for a clean spot to wipe the blade on but the denim is drowned in red. He shoves the knife back in his jacket pocket.

Castiel walks with him back to the car. There, they both glance back at the ramshackle farmhouse, truly abandoned for the first time in God only knows how long. Dean doesn’t look at Castiel, unwilling to be read as he asks.

“Place would look good in flames.”

From one moment to the next, the farmhouse goes from listing in slow deterioration to a smoking wreckage.

“Do not say thank you.”

Dean doesn’t have to look to know Castiel is gone. He looks at the farmhouse, watching the smoke turn into wisps in the air. Only when the smoke becomes a faded memory, does he get in the car and leave.

Sam was gonna want coffee.

 

 


End file.
